If I'm Murdered In the City, Don't Go Avenging In My Name

Being back from San Francisco has been a lesson in patience and in not pulling out my hair over life's little plot twists.

I thought I had escaped the awfully anti-stereotypical heat wave that was passing through San Diego last week while I was away, but it stuck around just for me. So it's eighty five this afternoon, sitting in my boyfriend's kitchen, pausing here and there to help his mother her things into her new husband's truck, on it's way to finding a home in their new house.

At Outside Lands, I fell in love with several bands, including the Avett Brothers, Blind Pilot, and The Morning Benders, so I've been rabidly stealing their music and listening to it with a fever. I'm finally starting to get hungry again after our Subway run around noon.

I hope I never forget what it was like to be in that city, at that place. The feeling of freedom, of beauty, of unparalleled freshness and lightness and tear-jerking exaltation.

Today, I was brought back from the precipice of losing everything by an act of selfless kindness.

Soon the sun will go down, Andre will come home, he'll take me back to my apartment, and I'll lay back and watch season six of The West Wing with my roommate.